


Sentiment

by Lightning_Strikes_Again



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Blood of Zeus
Genre: Angst, Background references to past relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Found Family, Gen, Just some broken babs coming together to heal slowly from their traumas, Multi, No ships between major characters but some Hyacinthus/Apollo and Coronis/Apollo per the myths, Sometimes a family includes some gods and some mortals, Spoilers for Blood of Zeus (BOZ) Season 1, Zeus is not a good man here, nothing graphic but some references to rape and abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:01:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27266872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning_Strikes_Again/pseuds/Lightning_Strikes_Again
Summary: The cruelties of Zeus and Hera tangle the fate of Apollo and his mother, Leto, with the fates of Electra, Heron, and Seraphim. But sentiment ties their threads together into a strong familial bond.Inspired by Netflix's Blood of Zeus (2020).
Comments: 26
Kudos: 157





	Sentiment

Apollo is the god of many things, but sentiment is not one of them.

He is the god of archery and art, prophecy and poetry, sunlight and shepherds—even healings and harvests. He is the god of purification and interpreting Zeus’s will to humans, but those titles continue to contradict each other, as Zeus’s aims are often less than pure. With every century that passes in peace, his father grows lackadaisical and more self-interested, despite his original heroism to overthrow the Titans. His trysts frustrate delicate balances, and Apollo has been burned more than once for trying to stop Zeus and Hera from hurting others in their catastrophic arguments about fidelity.

But for all his attempts at distance, here Apollo is, kneeling down beside a sobbing human queen. In her womb, she carries the heir to a human throne—and a second son. A son of Zeus. She trembles with the realization that the god of the heavens has seduced her in the guise of her true husband, and has left her to deceive his true wife Hera into ignorance.

Apollo is not supposed to be the god of sentiment.

But he feels deep, protective emotions as he watches Queen Electra’s eyes well with tears. He has witnessed such emotion before—even felt it for himself when he was still knitting together in the womb of the Titan Leto, his mother. In those days, Zeus had chosen not to marry the pregnant Leto and instead married Hera, his newest infatuation. Apollo remembers Hera’s fury that Leto would still bear Zeus a child. He remembers his mother’s suffering from many schemes and her occasional, pained thought that she would have been better off in Tartarus than at the whims of Zeus and Hera. 

She still suffers on occasion, her name tossed to the winds with a slight diminutive edge.

Apollo is terribly protective of his mother because of it. He supposes that is why he compromises himself to shield this Queen Electra from Hera’s scorn. He sees his own mother reflected in her eyes. His mother was a victim of her own beauty and of her cruel Titan family, and this poor wretched woman is not unlike her. 

Apollo’s lips pull in a pained grimace. Zeus’s newest obsession seems to be pursuing mortal women, for once their beauty fades and they die, they never again return to Zeus’s realm. Whereas Zeus knows he can always return to Hera to warm his bed, and that Hera loves him too much to truly hate him.

“What have I done?” the queen cries, her eyes distant as she holds her abdomen.

A righteous pain stirs in him. Apollo has kneeled upon the tiles of the royal rooms, reaching out to the sobbing Electra to help her stand. He is not supposed to be a god of sentiment, he reminds himself, but his voice is soft with her. “Do not fear,” he murmurs. “I have intervened to stay Hera’s ire against you. You are safe for now.”

Her big brown eyes blink at him in a watery mix of disbelief. It is the same look his mother gives when Apollo dares to think that perhaps Zeus and Hera will finally leave her alone. Electra’s dark skin pales. “Hera,” she repeats, breath catching unsteadily. “I have angered her?” Her voice breaks. Her tears stream faster down her face. “But I—I did not know it was Zeus. I did not know. I—” Her hands tremble even as she stands. She holds them out, begging. “I thought at first he was my husband. Surely, she will understand if I can explain.”

Queen Electra is a soft-hearted woman, but Apollo’s brow flies up at her readiness to speak to the goddess of heaven. She is either silly or terribly courageous for suggesting such, with Zeus’s newest bastard thriving within her.

Apollo pulls away, his golden-white hair floating back in a soft wave. “Hera will not hear your pleas,” he warned softly. “Just as she did not heed my mother’s.” He does not speak of what Hera had done to Leto, which is cruel and terrible. “But I have come to you to prepare you for the future.” He sees DEATH written upon her forehead. And even if he cannot stop her suffering or her destiny as a victim of the gods, he knows he can at least buy her time. He can lessen the horrors and suffering once bestowed on his own mother

He has to _try_ , in the name of Leto, who fell to her knees once and cried out to Zeus and Hera, “ _What is the eternal suffering of Tartarus compared to this immortal life? Have you no mercy at all?_ ”

For he still remembers Leto’s tears and the way she’d clutched her pregnant belly, attempting to murmur comforting words to him and his twin, Artemis, after the giant named Python had raped her—on Hera’s order.

But if he cannot hide Leto from Hera’s scorn, perhaps he can make things for Electra more tolerable—stretch out time so that she may know a little happiness. So that this unborn half-brother of his might know a semblance of normalcy. In that moment, despite all of his power and beauty and immortality, Apollo feels slightly useless.

He knows he is trying to save himself and his mother all over again, to no avail.

He swallows hard and raises his hand. The flames in the fireplace begin to dance for the queen. “Hope is not lost,” he tells her softly. “Your son will defend and cherish you, as I do my own mother. And you _will_ see the fields of Elysium one day.”

The human queen—the poor thing—stares at the paltry trick of light, her tears streaming down her face. “I am no hero. I have sinned greatly.”

Apollo narrows his eyes curiously. “It is not you who has sinned,” he murmurs. His voice lightens. “And you are plenty a heroine. You simply do not know your own strength yet.”

He is not a god of sentiment, he reminds himself. And he is certainly not the god of comforting abused women or hiding them from Hera. And Electra is certainly not his mother, even though he sees Leto in her. 

But he is here, nevertheless.

* * *

On the edge of Tartarus, Seraphim sees flashes. His mother appears in every cloud of smoke and upon every rock formation. When he closes his eyes, he sees her lying on the ground, his own bident soaked in her blood. When he inhales, he thinks of her and her last gurgled breaths. He looks down at his hands and sees her fingers desperately reaching for her son, Heron. His brother.

His long fingers tighten on the bident. “Sentiment.” He stares at the fires in the distance, mesmerized by the flicker of the flames and the way that the screams of the tortured echo across the skies, along with prayers for salvation.

In her final moments, Electra had been praying for not just Heron, but also for her own murderer. And despite her physical weaknesses and the shameful reality of her noble birth, Seraphim finds himself intrigued with her.

For she had not cowered before him. 

Strange, to find such inner strength in such a fragile vessel.

He tries not to think about his mother, but he cannot help it. Electra disrupts his precious understandings of strength and weakness—her very existence insinuates that one can be…both.

At the same time, even.

This suggest an opposite reality that haunts him—that despite his strength in life to exact revenge, he may have had a weakness of equal magnitude. A weakness that had resulted in his own miserable circumstances now, where he sits dead at the edge of Tartarus, awaiting an afterlife as a pawn, unable to escape the violence of politics.

He snarls.

It turns to a hitched breath. “What weakness have I?” he murmurs to himself, his modulated voice breaking. Was it his anger? His need for vengeance? Was it his love for the woman who raised him—the pain he’d felt at her death?

Seraphim is dead, but he is cold even as he stares at the fires. He moves to touch his face and realizes he is crying—something he has not done in a long time. He fears he is doomed to an eternity of being a pawn. Doing the dirty work for others, simply because he desired revenge out of love.

Is it love or hate that dragged him to Tartarus?

Was it indifference, when he had stared at his mother and killed her, thinking her simply another expendable human?

Seraphim squeezes his eyes shut, gnashing his fangs in agony. “Why did you pray for me?” he asks roughly to the air. “And why—?”

His clawed fingers tremble as he reaches down to touch his chest, where his own younger brother had skewered them both on the same sword.

Surely, he thinks, he should despise Heron for killing him. For frustrating his one chance to take down the gods and replace their regime.

But he feels only an emptiness, his rage instead…somewhere else. Larger. Deeper. Heron is a pawn of the gods, same as he. Electra was a pawn of the gods. And then these gods, it seems, punish their victims for the failures that the gods themselves so left for them.

Was he supposed to feel grateful for the death of his foster mother? Was he supposed to thank his uncle for the scar that had distorted his image? Was he supposed to rejoice at the strange, unsettling memory of sinking—sinking into the cold deep water—?

Sometimes, as he awaits orders from Hades, he wonders if his mother could still love him, if she knew who he were. But he is not certain if his wonderings are a strength or a weakness, for they make his fingers tremble and his eyes mist. And for the first time in many years, he has nothing with which to kill the pain. His memory of beating his uncle to death no longer offers comfort or satisfaction, for the universe is still so terribly wrong.

“Strength in this life,” he has heard people say. “Happiness in the next.”

But he just wants his mother.

* * *

The spirit of Electra wanders the fields of Elysium, as she was once promised by the god Apollo. The lands are beyond human comprehension—their beauty somehow more alive than any blade of grass or tree she has ever seen. No one sheds tears here, and all smile happily. 

Her own mother and father are here, overjoyed to see their beloved daughter. Her mortal husband is not here. She breathes a sigh of relief, although she prays yet that he is not in Tartarus, for she is not cruel.

No one asks for the details of another’s death, and as time goes by, it grows increasingly difficult to remember things. And time—it slips by in strange ways.

How long has she been here? A year? A decade? A few months?

The sun never sets…

But Electra, she looks to the entrance of the Elysian fields, ever watching for her son, Heron. And she searches the fields desperately for her first-born, believing with all of her heart that he must be here. The loss of him weighs heavily on her conscience yet.

His absence unsettles her.

Something is wrong in Elysium, to deny entry to a helpless baby tossed over a cliff.

* * *

Olympus is quiet without Zeus—or Hera, who yet remains missing. The humans know the heavens are unsettled, and they send up prayers to Hera and Zeus that now go entirely unanswered, causing several other gods to try and fill gaps, for the sake of the poor beings. But there are some things only Hera or Zeus could do.

Apollo is…trying. But he is only one god, and there are millions and millions of humans. And Apollo is not only still stiff from his own battle injuries, but he also has his own family to worry about as well. All of this leaves him distracted when healing humans of sickness or accepting their sacrifices at his statues, in exchange for bountiful harvests. And Heron is…

Heron is struggling.

Apollo watches his mortal half-brother in increasing concern. Despite his open invitation to walk among the gods atop Mount Olympus, Heron careens between smiles of relief and shadows of great pain, isolating from even his human friends who move on easily enough from the battle. He vacillates between cursing Zeus under his breath and crying in the silence, when he thinks no god could hear him. And he cannot speak the name of Electra at all, as she is his deepest point of pain. On occasion, the sky thunders—and humans and gods alike think it might be the return of Zeus.

But no, it is simply Heron, who struggles to control his emotions.

* * *

That night, Heron stares off the balcony, down at the waterfalls. Heron has achieved what Zeus desired for him, but it has cost him his soul to do it. The light is dead in his eyes. And Apollo is a god of light, not of darkness.

It bothers him to see his half-brother in such a state.

Apollo appears beside him, leaning against the guardrails of the balcony. His form glows with light to shine upon Heron. His white cape flutters about him as a protective shield, but his handsome face carries a deep vulnerability. He murmurs softly, “Dear brother, the skies reflect your sadness. Why do you mourn so? Zeus is…likely to return. And your mother is now in Elysium, where she is happy and celebrated a hero for her sacrifices to protect you.”

The man—a boy, really—swallows hard. His eyes are bright blue like Zeus’s, but they carry the weight of his mother. They reflect her soul. “That’s not comforting,” he says.

Heron is easily frustrated, as mortals are.

The wind blows, and it shifts Heron’s hair in a way that reminds Apollo of Electra. He grimaces. “Forgive me,” he says lightly. “Perhaps a race at the arena. Your chariot versus mine. I promise I can be quite fair.”

“No.” Heron brushes his eyes. Then he breathes out in a sigh and says, “I’m sorry. I’m just…” He waves his hand helplessly.

Apollo narrows his eyes at him. “I am a prophet, not a reader of minds. Tell me what ails you.”

That does it.

Heron’s blue eyes brighten hard with tears. His fingers begin to tremble, and he rubs his tunic, where he still bears a scar from skewering himself on the same sword with which he assassinated Seraphim. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Apollo eyes him with a patience gained over millennia. “Give me a chance to understand, at least.”

There is a pause of hesitance.

Heron’s voice grows watery. “I miss my mom. I want—” His throat tightens. He looks down and clicks his mouth shut. His cheeks flush in a shamed embarrassment. He is the savior of Olympus, but he is crying for his mother, in some last-ditch desire to feel comfort in her arms again. “I know you say she’s in Elysium. But…”

Apollo’s shoulders fall. 

Despite all the evils that have befallen her, Leto still lives. For she is a Titan, and she is not human like Electra. 

The sky thunders unsteadily. Heron’s fingertips sink into the guardrails. He adds, voice breaking, “And I keep seeing my brother’s face. I keep feeling him die on me.”

Apollo swallows hard. His heart moves. “I have held a loved one in my arms as he died,” he admitted haltingly. “It was, in part, my fault as well. For I did not think to protect him from a jealous god who desired him.” He speaks of Hyacinthus, of course—the mortal prince for whom Apollo had considered becoming mortal. If he thinks about it, he still feels the weight of Hyacinth limp in his arms, the puff of his last breath, eyes open dully to the heavens—

But he knows Hyacinthus is in Elysium as well, and has likely forgotten him in interest of a happy afterlife. Without suffering or pain. 

The human boy searches Apollo's eyes. And then his lips begin to tremble. “Not the same. I killed my family because I _exist_ ,” he suddenly breaths out. “If it weren’t for me…if I hadn’t been born—”

“—Do not think such things,” Apollo warns.

Heron is not listening to him. Foolish younger brother. “—Then Seraphim wouldn’t have gone crazy, and he might have been human, and they could have been…maybe happy instead of dead. It’s all me. It’s all because of me.”

Apollo is not the god of sentiment, but his eyes begin to mist.

“ _Mother_ ,” he remembers asking Leto, “ _if Artemis and I had not been born, would Hera not hurt you so badly? Does she hurt you because of me_?”

“All that has transpired,” he says firmly, “is not your fault. This is simply another yarn of our father’s, and we bear the burden of it.”

But Heron’s troubles deeply disturb Apollo, for it returns old memories. Old fears.

“If it’s not my fault,” Heron snaps in pain, pulling away, “why am _I_ paying for it? Why did mom have to pay for it, huh? Even my brother. Why do I keep getting family, but they keep getting taken away? _Why_?”

Apollo fails to answer, for he does not know why.

Humans think fate is some perfectly constructed rug. It’s more like a tangled knot, with the Fates huffing in irritation over it.

He flies to Leto that night, disconcerted that he cannot comfort Heron—and that Heron raises questions that Apollo himself has tried to drown out under the guise of chariot races and making love to strangers and shooting arrows—and pretending to be some all-powerful god, when in fact, he feels often useless.

A pawn himself.

* * *

Apollo finds his mother where humans still offer sacrifices to her. He stops his chariot outside her vast home hidden from the eyes of mortals—hanging in the clouds above the island of Delos, where she had labored for nine days to give him life.

“Mother?” he calls, pulling off his helmet and freeing his long hair.

But Leto does not respond, for the halls echo with the hum of a lullaby she hums. Apollo follows it, the sound mesmerizing and comforting to him. He feels deep peace in her presence, always.

He finds her working at her great loom.

The humans and Zeus so often paint the original Titans as ugly and cruel. But Leto’s skin is dark and hair a pure white—a feature inherited by Artemis, his sister. It slips behind her and down her back like a river of snow, and she sits clothed in a dress made of starlight itself. Apollo knows himself to be handsome purely because his mother is the most beautiful being, even though she is a Titan. And she is the kindest being he knows. 

Her humming stills, as do her fingers. She turns to him, her eyes glowing little moons. Her lips stretch in delight. “Ah, my son,” she greets him.

Apollo’s throat tightens hard.

For he feels it now.

Oh, does he feel it.

This is what Heron misses—this unconditional love of a mother.

Leto’s fingers hesitate in the air. She searches him. “Is something wrong, Apollo?” And then a fear rises within her.

He manages a pained smile. “No, it is nothing like that. You are safe, mother. I merely bring news and seek your counsel.”

She tilts her head, her long hair slipping down her shoulder. “Is this about the war between Olympus and the Giants?”

Apollo feels small before her sometimes, for if he is the sun of a single galaxy, then she is the collective stars in all the universe with her brightness. And Leto is wise—so terribly wise. For all the many squabbles in heaven, she manages to evade most of them. “Yes, mother.”

Leto turns her head back to her loom, and continues her work. Her fingers pluck threads a little harder. Somewhere in the universe, stars vibrate. “It serves them right, that Zeus and Hera both finally fall to their own folly. I am glad, my son, that you appear before me safe and sound. You should not spend so much time in Olympus; it will ruin you.”

He hesitates, for he already feels a bit ruined by it.

“Do you know why,” he murmurs, “this war occurred?”

Leto swallows. “Yes. Another woman—a human this time. It seems you continue to accrue many siblings from your father.” Her fingers carry a slight tremble.

It reminds Apollo of the unsteadiness within Electra and Heron.

He sits down at her sandaled feet, his gold flashing against the silver of Leto. He has seen several millennia, but he still leans against her, his face breaking. “I will not bother you with this for long, but I’ve a question to ask that only you could answer. For my brother is in great pain, and I know not how to help him.”

His mother looks down at him. She moves to fondly stroke his long hair, the golden hue something she had always delighted in. But her face pulls in pain. “You seek to ask me about the woman named Electra, and how to prove that she is better off in Elysium, where your human beloved also resides. I fear this human woman is yet unhappy. She wanders the gates of Elysium in search of her son." 

Apollo looks up, searching her moon eyes. His expression breaks.

Leto hesitates. Then she adds, “But I have thought to speak to Hades on her behalf.” Her moon eyes brighten with tears. “I feel…” She swallows hard. “I feel her prayers to me. She has remembered my name and calls upon me, as a mother-deity. She longs to be with her children.”

“What stops you from answering her prayer?” Apollo murmurs.

She looks away. “Her other son accepted the flesh of the Giants,” she whispers. Her face is taut.

Neither of them speak of Tityos.

Apollo’s face grew earnest with deep emotion. “I despise the Giants as well, for all that they have done.”

Leto waves her hand, voice breaking. “It’s not only that, my son—Hades has a mind to use this dead Giant-hybrid for his own aims. And Electra herself will never be happy until she sees _both_ of her sons, which means then that I would then interfere with Hades’s plans, all simply to plead on behalf of a…demonic murderer and a flesh eater. Do you not see it? The cycle? You start with one good intention, and then it creates mounting consequences. More struggles. More compromises to achieve a desired end.”

“You can return her, though,” Apollo pleads. “Heron would be happy, as I am happy with you. And one day, she could return to Elysium with hm.”

Leto’s eyes mist. “That is…equivalent to asking that I forget Artemis in _your_ favor. No, my son. I love both of my children equally, for all of your differences. This…human woman is the same. To involve myself, I will inevitably have to help this man who is her firstborn.” 

The young god pulls away from her, his sunlight glow dampening. And then his eyes narrow upon the loom. “Why is it then that you are spinning a cloak that is too small for your form? If you are so against her and her corrupted son?”

The Titan mother does not respond for a time.

Leto is always soft-hearted. “I suppose,” she says softly, “I may have thought of a way to assist her, even from a distance. I…I _want_ to help her, for I know her pains.” She begins to pull fabric from the loom. “This can hide her from the searing eyes of Hades. And it can protect her as well from the dangers of Tartarus…if she dares to search there for her more wayward son, even if she cannot return with him.”

Apollo’s eyes widen.

His glow begins to brighten.

Leto’s breath hitches. “If you see her, tell her I am sorry I did not answer her prayers. For I have been in her position, crying out for help with no relief.” Her moon eyes bubble with tears. “I have much fear in me yet.”

Apollo leans forward and kisses his mother’s cheek. “You are strong to offer her help,” he murmurs. 

Leto is a fragile woman. But she carries a deep strength to have woven this special garment for a victim of Zeus and Hera—and to feel empathy enough to consider Electra’s pleas for _both_ of her children.

Apollo makes the flames of her fireplace dance for her in a way that always places a smile on his mother’s face.

* * *

The god of art and archery is not supposed to be this sentimental, but he’s had a breakdown over Hyacinthus’s death, enough to nearly renounce his own immortality. And he’s wept gladly over the beauty of the color orange in a sunset. Apollo is afraid he is much softer than he should be as a god, and he bemoans his own giving nature.

He just wants his family to be happy.

A family away from Zeus and Hera and all the misery of Olympus.

He slips into the underworld, pats Cerberus on his three heads, especially the regrown one. Hades is away, having taken his new demonic pet Seraphim out for a mission—likely to gain a new relic or power for enhancing Hades’ kingdom.

The perfect opportunity to pass by the entrance of Elysium in his chariot.

Apollo’s golden-white hair streams behind him, his eyes set ahead in great determination. “I seek the soul of Queen Electra,” he calls out, his voice a soft boom. “On behalf of my mother, the Titan Leto.”

And there, from the entrance, comes a slight woman in a white dress. It is Electra, just as she was when Apollo had first seen her. She is youthful and glowing. Her long locks curl down her shoulders. Her face is tense. “You have called for me? Is this about my son? Do you know where he is? Do they both still live?”

Apollo stares at her. Oh, is she fragile and strong, just like his mother. He sees Heron in Electra as well.

“Your firstborn is dead. But I can lead you to him,” he declares, hesitant. “And my mother has woven this cloak that will hide you from Hades’ eyes and from the darkness and pain of the realm where your son typically resides. You may return to the realm of the living, but the shield will work only for him, as his crimes are too great for such mercies.”

The joy slips from Electra’s face, along with her vibrant color. She suddenly appears as a wraith. Her eyes bubble in tears. “No,” she whispers. Her voice breaks, then strengthens. “No, my son was a baby. He was a _child_ , and innocent. He was—” Her brows knit together in deep pain. “He was even my legitimate son. For what reason would he be in _Tartarus_?”

The sun god does not answer for a time, for he is the god of prophecy and not of memory. Then, he says softly, “Your first son lived to adulthood. He was…unfortunately corrupted by the Giants. Your other son, Heron, had to kill him.”

Electra’s breath hitches. Her knees weaken. The promise of Elysium—her hopeful joy that she would one day be united with her little ones—is ruined. “What did he do?” 

Apollo hesitates. “You will know when you see him.” Even now, an unsteady chill appears down Apollo’s spine. His dislike of the Giants leaves him without many words to offer Electra. He instead tosses her the cloak. “You may move across the realms, undetected with the cloak of Leto. But It will work only for you, and not for your corrupted son, who threw his lot in with the Giants who raped my mother.”

Electra stares at him.

Her eyes water with tears. She begins to cry, clinging tight to the cloak, which gives her—a simple human—complete and unfettered access to the realms of the living and of the dead.

It is the most power she has ever held in her hands, next to Zeus himself.

And…for once, Electra is not simply a pawn to be pushed on a board.

“Will I recognize him?” she pleads. “This son of mine who has converted to a demon?”

Apollo’s throat tightens. There is a level of pain in Electra’s eyes that reminds him of his own mother, when she once pleaded to an angry Zeus that Apollo himself not be thrown to Tartarus. It is a deep form of love, to inspire a mother to plead for a fallen son.

“Yes,” he whispers. “You will recognize him.”

Electra’s fingers tighten upon the cloak. “May I—may I see his image now, to prepare myself for meeting him? I do not know how he would look as a grown man.”

Apollo thinks of his mother appearing upon Olympus in her silver threads, her moon eyes bright with tears, a righteous anger outshining even the brightest stars in the heavens. “ _Release my son_ ,” she had demanded to Zeus. “ _You drove him to his madness by killing his child in cold blood_.” Leto had broken into tears. “ _Do not send him to Tartarus for his grief_.”

“ _He killed many_.”

“ _As have you_ ,” Leto snapped back to Zeus, a rage in her. Her voice broke. “ _What hope do the mortals have for fair judgement if my son can go to Tartarus for avenging his child, while you—?”_ Her throat had tightened up. “ _You take women like me without asking for our hands. You kill and deceive and lie for your own gain_.” She had stepped forward, her white hair streaming about her in a righteous fury. “ _If you send him to Tartarus, then..._.” Her fingers began to glow as she sobbed. _“I care not for the consequence. I will tie you there on the rocks myself. I cannot lose anything more. I simply cannot._ ”

Even Hera had faltered at Leto’s pain and power, her eyes softening with a mix of empathy…and protectiveness over Zeus. It had cooled Hera’s anger against Leto, enough for her cheeks to flame in shame for what she had done.

Apollo’s dark fingers clench tightly onto the reins of his immortal horses. His eyes brighten with tears, in fear that he has more in common with this Seraphim than he even dares to admit. Then he reaches out to Electra, planting an image in her mind of her son’s current form. “This is Seraphim, your first-born.”

This fragile human woman begins to pale at the image. Her lips drop open.

The fields of Elysium stretch out from the entrance behind her, but her eyes well with tears. She does not drop the cloak or weaken to her knees. She does not flee back into Elysium, where she could ignore the pain and suffering of life.

Shakily, she steps forward. She begins to cry. “Oh.” Her voice breaks. “ _Oh._ ”

Apollo drops down from his chariot, to hold her, face breaking. For in his own day, Zeus had chained him. He had not been able to embrace his mother as she broke down before the throne of Zeus. He’d stood there muzzled, tears streaming down his face in a mindless rage.

Electra leans against him, grabbing for his strong forearm, desperate for a living heat and comfort. “My son,” she cries. “My darling son. What did they do to you, to twist you so?”

Apollo is not the god of sentiment. But tears burn his eyes. Leto’s cries of the same still echo in his ears, from millennia ago.

And he notices that Electra is the only conflicted soul to wander at the gates of Elysium. 

* * *

Electra soon searches for her fallen son, Seraphim. She knows that Heron is alive and safe, and she fears the horror that Seraphim yet endures. Beneath the cloak, she slips past Cerberus on her own, her soul flickering in fear with every step. She has to remind herself that she was once a queen and had faced far scarier nights than this one. The bed of her husband, and his displeasure, had terrified her, and even now, it still sends a chill through her to think of him. What is the underworld, she thinks hesitantly, compared to that man’s cruelty?

But as she nears Tartarus, she begins to hesitate. It is dark and carries the screams of the tortured. Her limbs shake at the thought that her own son resides here, under the thumb of the god Hades.

But she knows this man.

This monster.

“ _Your prayers will not help yo_ u.”

Her firstborn, Seraphim, leans back against dark rocks, his blue hands bound before him by chains and his soul-body wavering in exhaustion. His features are heavily distorted by the markings of the Giants, having eaten of their flesh in life.

Electra struggles to see the happy little baby she had birthed, for she sees—for only a time—the monster who had killed her with his bident.

It isn’t until Hades leaves him that she sees this strange, corrupted being struggle against his bonds and then cry in the silence. The proud line in his shoulders breaks hard, like metal in a forge. He keens in a moan of pain, then bashes his head against the rocks in an attempt to end it all. Only to realize he is already dead.

And stuck.

His chest heaves with strange breath as he cries, in loss, in rage.

It’s in the midst of his own scattered thoughts that Electra dares to reach out to touch his face. “Seraphim?”

Those red eyes snap to her dully. He does not believe her to be real—instead merely a fiction of his own mind. But his face breaks at the sight of her. His voice is deep, modulated with the power of a demon. “Why do you accost me again, mother?”

Electra knows her marriage with Seraphim’s father was loveless, but she had grown fond of her babies while they grew within her. She sheds tears, daring to touch Seraphim’s horn that disrupts the proud crown of his temples.

Her voice is soft and quiet. “I am visiting you.”

His blue lips stretch open in a humorless smile. Bright, long fangs gleam from his visage, and it makes her skin goose-bump. “Visit. Yes.” But he leans into her touch, the strain of insanity in his eyes dampening in want for the love of a mother. “My mother would despise me for murdering her.” And then he tenses, for he suddenly remembers that this is the edge of Tartarus. And there is no comfort in Tartarus, only horrors.

Seraphim eyes her in great suspicion.

Electra hesitates. “We are both pawns of the gods,” she whispers. “How can I hate you for that?”

It is the first time Seraphim has ever imagined his mother’s forgiveness. He suddenly snarls at her, bearing his fangs. “Stop it,” he snarls. His voice breaks, modulating with a hitch. “You hallucination. You seek only to torment me. As you always do.” His red eyes begin to mist oddly. “You would not visit me here, if you were truly her.” 

Electra reaches out once more to touch his bound hands. His soul whips between freezing and burning, his skin rough with the hide of a Giant. “It’s—it’s alright, my son. I feel your pain.” She begins to cry. “I can try to understand why you ate of the Giants. I—I have killed as well before. I do not know how I came to be in Elysium, but I cannot rest, knowing that you are not there with me.”

Seraphim, for all of his demonic features, suddenly stares at her dumbfounded. This is new information to him. “Who did you kill?”

Electra swallows hard, then whispers, “You father, for he was very cruel.”

There is a pause as he searches her eyes in awe, that perhaps the virtuous image he had of his mother is not entirely accurate. That perhaps he does share something with her. He imagines some shadow-father striking Electra down, as men often do to their wives.

And then Seraphim breaks, suddenly reaching out for her as if she were the last star in the sky, clawed fingers trembling with emotion, afraid to hurt her.

* * *

Apollo watches over Electra in great curiosity of her. She is far stronger than he thought she was, to return to her fallen son again and again on the edge of Tartarus, beneath the nose of Hades. He begins to wonder what exactly he and Leto have set into play, for he is a god of prophecy but cannot see himself or the consequences of his own actions.

Hades is most certainly rising up to take over the skies. He seems to think that Seraphim is somehow the key to his great plan’s success.

And yet oddly, Electra—that bold woman—has found ways to free Seraphim from his bonds at night, when Persephone entertains her husband. This results in Seraphim and Electra returning to the lands of the living during the winter months.

During the nights.

Seraphim is still strange and unsettled and largely frustrated with his afterlife. But he follows his mother like a lost puppy dog, wherever she wishes to go—including to the house of Heron, a small little place Apollo and Hermes had cut for him out of a cliffside (Heron seems to do better on Earth than atop Olympus). But Seraphim never goes inside, and Apollo and Leto watch him curiously as well as he listens to the joyous reunion of Heron with their mother, even if it’s only for short bursts of time.

Instead, the soul of Seraphim wanders on those nights. He does strange things, like fix a poor family’s roof while they are away. He carries a child who fell into a well to a healer. He cuts off a great length of his hair and offers it to a noblewoman who is too sick to grow her own mane.

The polis believe they are haunted by a strange spirit. Seraphim hides his image in fear that the gods will see him and punish his mother for sneaking him out of the underworld. He appears as only a shadow. Heron, however, has his suspicions and silently assists his brother from a distance, offering him little baubles along his awkward journey for redemption.

Up in the skies, Apollo murmurs to his mother, “Do you believe Seraphim does his good works to unbalance Hades’s right to command him?”

Leto is hesitant with this Seraphim, for he bears the image of one who had—who had—

She looks away. “Yes,” she whispers. “He despises being a pawn for the will of gods.” She clasps for a pendant upon her silver necklace, desperate for strength. “For of his terrible distortions, I can...understand that, at least.”

Apollo runs his hand through his long hair, sighing. “As can I,” he moans. He is still unsettled that he can see a past image of himself in that demon. But he sits clothed in gold and honors while Seraphim drowns in judgements and gnashing of his fangs. And he knows that Heron sees the hypocrisy of the gods. It makes his face burn on occasion, that his little half-brother is more pure of heart than a so-called god of purification himself. It makes Apollo feel terribly protective over Heron, for the boy has had little joy to offset his pains. His true joy seems to come from being with his mother and attempting to reach out to his brother, who is not entirely lost.

Apollo looks down at himself, then at how he himself finds his peace with his mother and sister.

Heron is so incredibly like him sometimes.

He pleads with Leto, “Why must it be so that both men and gods suffer for merely existing as we do?”

His Titan mother turns to him, her moon eyes sad. When she tears up, the glow of them far outshines his own halos. She reaches out and touches his face. “Not even the Fates can see themselves,” she says softly. “Just as you can see so much with your prophecies, but you do not see your own follies.” She then pinches his cheek fondly as if he were a child.

He sputters at her, playfully narrowing his eyes. But his heart softens at the sound of her bell laugh.

* * *

It takes a few years, but the goddess Leto eventually begins to spin a cloak for this Seraphim as well, so that he can escape from Hades without the help of his mother, to work off his debts at night in the way of Hercules. As she spins it, Leto is accompanied by the transient dead-yet-not Electra, who pulls down her hood. Her dark curls spill out, and her soul smiles brightly in delight of Leto’s company.

Although her body is long gone, her soul’s ability to traverse the realms makes her a strange force. Neither a god nor an average human, nor a demigod. But Electra does not seem to mind her strange existence, for it is the first time that no one labels her as “whore.”

Apollo’s throat tightens when Electra comes to visit Leto. For his mother smiles brightly in return, a small joy in her for having found a friend.

He thinks Heron and Seraphim are growing on her too.

And it’s around then that Apollo remembers he is the god of healing—and that all of this sentiment might be a way to heal many still-open wounds. 

He almost dares to ask Electra if she could help him with something, in return for all of this healing.

But he stops himself.

He knows his brother’s human family have been pawns for too long. And they are the only ones who carry the strange cloaks of Leto, for Leto used the last of her special thread on Seraphim’s cloak.

That is well, Apollo thinks. They are all happier. Heron smiles now. Seraphim appears to have more emotions than pain and rage and now is terribly protective of Leto too. Electra is living her best afterlife, entirely beyond the categories that the gods normally place upon dead humans. 

He would not ruin their happiness by asking a favor, even though his heart aches to be healed as well.

* * *

Electra’s voice is soft as she awkwardly learns to use a loom. “Your son, Apollo,” she says to Leto. “He has done much for me, as have you. What can I do in return? I am grateful. I _want_ to do something.”

Leto stares at her, her moon eyes widening in surprise. This is unnatural behavior. The way of the universe is that humans offer a sacrifice in exchange for a favor, or else they beg for a favor and forget to honor the god who so stooped to assist them.

She lowers her gaze. “I require nothing,” she says lightly. “But your presence is pleasant to me, if you should wish to continue visiting me in the winter months.”

“And Apollo?” Electra begs. “What of him?”

Leto’s white brows knit together. She hesitates.

Electra leans forward. “He has this—great sadness in his eyes. As a mother, it burns me too. What can I do?”

The Titan swallows hard. “My son…has lost many loved ones to the underworld. Including his lover, and his child. But if he has not asked for your help, then you do not need to give it. For it would be dangerous to sneak more out of the underworld, even for a night. And he is protective of you, as he is of me.”

* * *

Apollo knows that Electra has killed a man—her own husband, by stabbing him in the face. There is a side of Electra that can snap, just as Seraphim can. Just as Leto can. There is a side of Electra that is far stronger than Zeus’s flighty will. 

He forgets this sometimes, as she is slight of form and appears quite weak, bundled beneath her cloak of Leto with her big, sad eyes.

But she surprises him, for he cannot ever see his own Fate, and Electra has intertwined herself with such.

Deeply.

* * *

On a winter night, Apollo comes to visit his brother Heron, bringing gifts in want that Heron and his wraith family might yet know joy. Apollo finds gold to be a pleasing thing, but Heron accepts only so much before he gives it away to others who are poor. And then he awkwardly tries to tell Apollo that he just doesn’t _need_ everything in his life to be gold and shine—he’s quite used to living a simple life.

Although he does keep the bow.

Heron likes that one.

This makes it difficult for Apollo to know what his pure-hearted half-brother will accept for himself. After consulting his sister Artemis, who is quite fond of them all as well, he settles on warm cloaks of fur. He had fretted over finding a beast with a fur soft enough that would make Heron warm, even on the sad winter mornings when his mother and brother must leave again for the underworld. Artemis, with her beloved heart, had offered this fur to keep their dear half-brother warm. 

So when Apollo arrives in his fire chariot at the doorway, he is holding various gifts in his arms. He does not see his own Fate before him.

“Dear human family,” he calls out, having found a peace and joy with them, away from all the wretched politics of Olympus. He finds himself spending more time with them, aching during summer months when they cannot visit. “I bring you gifts with the blessing of my sister Artemis, so that you might welcome a poor god like me to your hearth.”

The soul of Electra appears at the doorway, calling out with a tense excitement. “I’ve a gift for you as well, Apollo!”

Her cloak is raised around her because she shares it with Seraphim, who holds it protectively around her.

Apollo looks up.

And suddenly, his hands weaken. From his fingers slip the cloak for Heron, along with the gold necklace for Electra and the desperately needed hair combs for Seraphim. They fall to the dirt of the earth.

And his jaw drops.

Beneath the second cloak of Leto is a tall and lithe man. In his arms, carries a young boy child.

Apollo’s heart gives out. He falls to his knees, his white cloak unsettling around him. And his eyes begin to burn.

Tears of joy and surprise stream down his face as he reaches out to the image before him. Beneath the cloak is his long-dead lover, Hyacinthus, whose dark hair yet curls like the petals of a flower. And in his arms is the love child that Apollo had brought to life through his affair with the princess Coronis. The child that Zeus had killed for having healing powers that were too great.

A moan shakes through Apollo. His handsome face pulls in great emotion.

The man in the cloak kneels down beside him, still holding the child close. His voice is a smooth, airy sound—joyous. “Apollo. You’ve looked better.”

The world tilts. A god of the sun is brought to his knees. He cries out, voice breaking, “Hyacinthus. Asclepius.”

The child’s dark eyes light up, recognizing his father. Little arms reach out for him.

Apollo knows that they are still dead—like Electra and Seraphim, a strange halfway form outside the underworld. But as Hyacinthus wraps the cloak around him, gathering him in his arms, he breaks and moves to hold them both, crying happily. He can _feel_ them. He can touch them and hold them once more and hear their voices. He kisses Hyacinthus’s cheek, then Asclepius’s. He does not know where his heart is, for it bursts from him in a million stars. He glows as the sun.

And it is in the middle of a dark winter night that a sharp, open wound of his own begins to close upon the heart of the god of healing.

Heron, his pure little half-brother, leans back against a wall, crossing his arms with a smile on his face.

Seraphim’s blue lips are tilted downward. “Sentiment,” he complains.

But Electra elbows him, and he grumps back lightly, lowering his eyes in respect. Leto and Apollo have asked nothing of them, and for that, Seraphim grows fonder of them, even if they are gods.

Apollo is unable to focus on anything else, crying and kissing Hyacinthus again before stroking the cheek of his murdered child, before looking up at Electra with an awe in him. “You have brought them to me? I did not ask this of you. It must have been—the danger—”

She gives him a soft, motherly look. “We do strange things for family, as you know.”

* * *

Apollo is not the god of tears or of joy. But he _is_ the god of healing. Through this strange human woman and her sons, he finds himself healing, as does his mother. She descends from the clouds to coo at her grandchild and at Apollo’s beloved, pinching his cheeks affectionately just as she does to Apollo himself on occasion. Hyacinthus laughs and embraces her, in want for a mother as well. He asks after Artemis, and Apollo and Leto hail for her to join the celebration. 

Apollo knows that peace never lasts long. Hera will return to Mount Olympus in a fret over the loss of Zeus, sobbing in a strange way over love and hate. And Zeus himself might yet regenerate, to bring forth more complication while lessening the burden on the other gods to answer prayers. Hades will likely one day discover their ruse when Seraphim slips out from under his command entirely, and Hades will rage that his command over the dead has been undermined. It is possible that Apollo might find a way to resurrect people and force the hand of other gods into a compromise, for the sake of balance—that he might yet be able to resurrect Hyacinthus and Asclepius and Electra and Seraphim for a price.

Things are always so complicated.

But Apollo feels a contentment in that moment. 

And the love he has for his strange, patchwork family—he holds onto that sentiment tightly. For he is not the god of sentiment, but he might as well be. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all! So I watched Blood of Zeus on Netflix, which recently published. I was really intrigued by why Apollo would tell Zeus that Hera could see him with this human woman, Electra. And at first, I thought it was to actually help his dad get away with cheating. And then I realized that, given the myths surrounding Apollo and his mother, that it was likely for the sake of Electra, to protect her from Hera. 
> 
> It's been a hot minute since I researched Greek mythology, so apologies for any inaccuracies. I suppose I am writing these characters with a degree of creative license, haha. This assumes that Apollo survived the war and that the man he was sleeping with wasn't Hyacinthus, even though I've definitely seen that name brought forth as a possibility. I guess if it was, then this will just be an AU timeline, then, haha. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm a sucker for family drama and angst with a dash of redemption, so here we are, lol. If you read this monster, I hope you enjoyed it! Please review with your thoughts, thank you!


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